Band Life

Saturday, January 19, 2013

Tape it or leave it: Considering the cassette release

Posted by Andrea Bauer on 01.19.13 at 09:00 AM

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I probably haven't listened to anything on cassette since my formative years, which were deep in the 1980s—a glorious decade, mind you, in which sad new-wave boys wore makeup and cordless phones roamed free. And while I've noticed an increasing trend of bands releasing albums on the unlikely format of cassette tape, I'd rather not call the medium a "throwback," or this movement a "resurgence," because cassette tapes never truly went away . . . at least mine didn't, judging by my massive cardboard box of tapes which holds such hits as the Pretty in Pink soundtrack and, ahem, George Michael's Faith, which I will promptly listen to once I finish writing this. But anyway, with all kinds of bands dropping new releases on tape, a Carrie Bradshaw-esque voice-over in my head couldn't help but wonder: Why, in this digital age and vinyl revival, would a band ever release an album on cassette?

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Saturday, January 5, 2013

Cold studios, writer’s block, sound science, and SATAN!

Posted by Andrea Bauer on 01.05.13 at 10:00 AM

Gates of Hades
  • Gates of Hades
Chicago winter is upon us and we're back to scraping snow off our cars and wearing winter coats in our practice spaces; it's not even that cold yet, but my brain has gone into hibernation or some sort of post-holiday food coma . . . and it seems I have a particularly brutal case of writer's block, so I asked my "special friend" for advice on what to write for this episode of band life. Here's what happened in our Gchat:

Dudepants: I think I may need to cut the fingers off some new gloves. It's too fucking cold in the studio . . . It's crazy cold.
me: You can buy fingerless gloves, you know.
Dudepants: Maybe I need to erect some sort of tent where the mixing board, computer and keyboards are. Like, I'll have to leave the tent to play the drums . . . but just the drums.
me: You could build a pyramid. Hey, can you help me?
Dudepants: What do you need help with?
me: I need help figuring out what. The fuck. I'm going to write my blog post about.
Dudepants: hmm
Well . . .
Dudepants: god, I don't know . . .
me: Maybe I should write about how you made a recording of your dishwasher. That's what my brain sounds like right now.
Dudepants: You could write about drones. Or about what it is that makes former rock-types start recording drones instead of rock-type songs, but that's a real can of worms.
me: Maybe I should write about how diminished chords used to be illegal.
Dudepants: Write about the Devil's CHORD!!
me: SATAN!
Dudepants: No, seriously . . . that interval.
me: What is it exactly? A flatted fifth?
Dudepants: The beginning of Purple Haze. It’s a half step between a fourth and a fifth. It was apparently banned for a while from compositions by the Roman Catholic church.
me: Because of SATAN!
Dudepants: Or something like that.
god my fingers are so cold I can barely type
me: Do you know about the brown note?
Dudepants: ha . . .
Next question.
Why don't you do it on iDRUGS!!
me: Do what? Play the brown note? On drugs?
Dudepants: No, the mp3s that make you HIIIIGH
me: Ohhh!! Hmm . . .
Dudepants: It's old news by now: http://www.wired.com/threatlevel/2010/07/digital-drugs/ but still interesting.
me: That's a good idea. Maybe I should experiment on myself and write about that?

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Saturday, December 22, 2012

Postapocalyptic notes from the future

Posted by Andrea Bauer on 12.22.12 at 10:00 AM

Sting
  • Sting
If you're reading this right now, the world didn't end yesterday as you had feared or hoped. Or maybe it did, and we're all living in a postapocalyptic hell that looks strikingly similar to every day that came before this one. In honor of the end, I asked Sarah Frier—Reckless Records lifer and charming local weirdo—about the fate of music in a postapocalyptic land. She time traveled and sent this bananas letter from the future. *Spoiler alert*: Sting's legend lives on.


"A Connecting Principle"

Dear Uncle B,

When the Great Library at Old Chicago was found I guess it was like about 1,000 years after the End of the World? I dunno. It was way before my time. But it was quite the sensation, so I hear. Well, I mean, among The Reading anyways. Not that you can like really blame folks who have decided to condemn it. Technically, reading did once get us all into a metric shit-ton of trouble.

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Saturday, December 15, 2012

Backstage tour rider: a holiday listicle

Posted by Andrea Bauer on 12.15.12 at 10:00 AM

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'Tis the season for list making, and since everyone on the Internets is doing it, so will I. Here's an ultimate backstage tour rider compiled from some ultimate backstage tour riders.

Some awesome ice cubes (Foo Fighters)

A really good salad (Foo Fighters)

"Some crackers and maybe some dips. Hummus and taramasalata. Today the world, tamarasalata." (Iggy Pop)

Two (2) seven-passenger Cadillac limousines (air-conditioned if possible), with chauffeurs (the Beatles)

White room, white flowers, white tables, white drapes, white candies, white couches (J. Lo)

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Saturday, December 8, 2012

How old is too old to rock?

Posted by Andrea Bauer on 12.08.12 at 02:00 PM

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Today is the day—the Rolling Stones are about to play their first U.S. show on their 50th-anniversary tour. They've been a band for 50 YEARS. Charlie Watts is 71, you guys. 71! And whatever, they may have lost a bit of their sex appeal, but I'm not gonna knock that. Those songs are still good, and if I had $400 lying around on my mattress instead of under it, that might be a cool thing to see.

Many, many years ago I went out with a fellow Chicago musician to watch some aging indie rockers perform. My friend leaned over to me and said, "If I'm still doing this when I'm forty, please . . . just stop me." Said rocker is now over 40, still playing music, still gracing the stages at our favorite venues, and still killing it. Although I have a hazy recollection of promising him I would, I'm not about to stop him.

There was a time when a younger version of myself thought that one day I, too, would be too old to rock. I had a desperation to make records, to tour, to get things done before I reached this elusive, yet seemingly inevitable, end-of-rocking age. I voiced my self-reflexive ageism to my bandmate, expecting her to feel the same. She responded by showing me photos of Kim Gordon looking hot with a bass at 50, and then presented a hypothetical octogenarian perk: we wouldn't even have to get up to turn on our amps—we could flip the switch with our canes. Still indignant, I retorted by saying that, Fine, I'll play drums so I'm further back onstage in the darkest corner so the kids will never know that I'm old.

The older, wiser version of myself knows now that my mentality at the time was just fucking stupid.

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Saturday, December 1, 2012

Booze, blood, and plasma balls: band rituals for inspiring creativity

Posted by Andrea Bauer on 12.01.12 at 02:00 PM

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Being meaningfully creative on a regular basis is hard. Duh. Not being creative when you really want to be is even worse; art failure is heart failure, as they say. Perhaps this is why artists, musicians, writers, and, OK, humans create rituals designed to unleash that very special thing we know is in us somewhere. That beautiful noise that has no sound or that image that knows no words is curled up tight in the hideout at the backs of our brains while we wish it would just reveal itself in a communicable form. Summoning the rock gods to inspire the music within us can be quite the task—after talking to several bands, it seems the roads to creativity may involve rituals that range from the scientific to the wildly superstitious.

It's rumored that Billy Corgan had a rule that his banddudes were not allowed to have sex on the day of a show, and for good reason—letting go of that load means lower energy levels for guys. Women, on the other hand, have reported feeling more energized and creative postorgasm. A certain Chicago musician inspires lyrics by jumping up and down for hours while listening to mixes through headphones, thus inducing the production of endorphins, which boost creativity. "It is conducive to vivid image creation," he says. Similarly, my song ideas come to me while I'm walking and nowhere near my instruments. That makes sense, I guess—the scientists say that your brain chemistry changes after you walk two miles.

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Saturday, November 17, 2012

Mixtapes: the gifts that keep on giving

Posted by Andrea Bauer on 11.17.12 at 02:00 PM

mixtape.jpg
The world is getting darker, my friends, and that special time of year is upon us—there are about to be turkeys and tofu options, menorahs and Christmas trees, special issues, Eartha Kitt singing "Santa Baby" in every store you walk in to, and, of course, all of the hanging out with those strange people who look a lot like you but might not think like you at all. And they're about to get all up in your grill. They will ask why you're not engaged to your live-in boyfriend yet. They will ask whatever happened to that nice girl Vanessa. They will ask why you haven't found a job yet. They may even be the type to tell you to pray away the gay. You and your SO may be sequestered to separate sleeping arrangements over a long holiday weekend while nieces run about with food on their faces demanding the gift of cousins from you specifically. You will fear these four-foot tyrants. But you will still give them gifts, even as your bank account crumbles in the wake of your mere sideways glance.

Fear not, small grasshoppers! You shall stand strong in the holiday chaos! And you can give the gift that keeps on giving. You will give unto the world . . . the Mixtape. It will cost nothing but your soul.

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Saturday, November 10, 2012

Author and comedian Brian Costello shares more notes from the rock underground

Posted by Andrea Bauer on 11.10.12 at 02:00 PM

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The time has come for you to go read some real live literature about band life. If you've ever read Brian Costello's The Enchanters vs. Sprawlburg Springs, a hilarious satirical novel about being in a suburban band, then you prolly wanna read his most recent writing. Here's an autobiographical account of the first show he ever played, in all of its understated, comedic glory.

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Saturday, November 3, 2012

The Axl Rose disaster revisited

Posted by Andrea Bauer on 11.03.12 at 02:00 PM

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I think a tiny piece of my soul cracked off last week when this Axl Rose video was spread around the Internet like a bad high school rumor. (Click with caution—you can't unsee this.) Perhaps I was so bummed because Guns N' Roses' Appetite for Destruction is high on my list of the most influential albums in my life, and I'd like to keep its glory untarnished. When I was in grade school, I stole the cassette from my older brother. I would rush home from school to play it repeatedly through my lavender boom box in my pink-striped bedroom. The opening notes on side one, song one's "Welcome to the Jungle" bouncing around into the anticipatory build was so. Very. EXCITING! My naive ten-year-old mind dedicated hours to dissecting the mysterious lyrics across this album—who is this Mr. Brownstone character, anyway, and why is he always knocking? Everyone else is so tired but he still wants to dance that badly? While a lot of girls my age were choosing which New Kids on the Block boy they wanted to marry, I wanted to be Slash. I got out my dad's acoustic guitar and wrote my first song. It was dark. It was deep. It was dissonant. It was the worst song anyone has ever written. But still. GNR was the first band that made me desperately want to play the guitar.

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Saturday, October 27, 2012

Performance anxiety (the stage kind, not the sex kind). Also, Cat Power.

Posted by Andrea Bauer on 10.27.12 at 02:00 PM

Tomorrow night Chan Marshall, aka Cat Power, will play the Vic on tour in support of her new album, Sun. How that performance will go is pretty much a crapshoot.

A million years ago, I saw Cat Power for the first time at Schubas. At the time, I was deep in the throes of 90s indie rock—probably because it was the 90s. I was fresh out of college, armed with my unrealistic dreams and the whole world sprawled out before me . . . unveiling a fascinating, shimmering cloud of doom full of twentysomething disappointments. My roommate and I shared a tiny apartment that we cleaned every other . . . never, and we basically existed on top of each other as we haphazardly navigated our freshman year of life. The only thing that held any shred of certainty was that a dirty, fingerprinted, scratched-as-fuck copy of Cat Power’s Moon Pix was on constant rotation in the CD player.

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